They were off.  Percival knew that he waltzed well, and had an idea that Lottie would prove a good partner.  Nor was he mistaken.  She had been fairly taught, much against her will, had a good ear for time, and, thanks to many a race with Robin Wingfield, her energy was almost terrible.  They spun swiftly and silently round, unwearied while other couples dropped out of the ranks to rest and talk.  Percival was well pleased.  It is true that he had memories of waltzes with Sissy Langton of more utter harmony, of sweeter grace, of delight more perfect, though far more fleeting.  But Lottie, with her steady swiftness and her strong young life, had a charm of her own which he was not slow to recognize.  She would hardly have thanked him for accurately classifying it, for as she danced she felt that she had discovered a new joy.  Her old life slipped from her like a husk.  Friendship with Cock Robin was an evident absurdity.  It is true she was angry with herself that, after fighting so passionately for freedom, she should voluntarily bend her proud neck beneath the yoke.  She foresaw that her mother and Addie would triumph; she felt that her bondage to Mrs. Grundy would often be irksome; but here was the first instalment of her wages in this long waltz with Percival.  She fancied that the secret of her pleasure lay in the two words—­“with Percival.”  In her ignorance she thought that she was tasting the honeyed fire of love, when in truth it was the sweetness of conscious success.  Before the last notes of that enchanted music died away she had cast her girlish devotion, “half in a rapture and half in a rage,” at her partner’s feet, while he stood beside her calm and self-possessed.  He would have been astounded, and perhaps almost disgusted, had he known what was passing through her mind.

Love at sixteen is generally only a desire to be in love, and seeks not so much a fit as a possible object.  Probably Lottie’s passion offered as many assurances of domestic bliss as could be desired at her age.

Percival was dark, foreign-looking and handsome:  he had an interesting air of reserve, and no apparent need to practise small economies.  His clothes fitted him extremely well, and at times he had a way of standing proudly aloof which was worthy of any hero of romance.  No settled occupation would interfere with picnics and balls; and, to crown all, had he not said to her, “Those eyes of yours”?  Were not these ample foundations for the happiness of thirty or forty years of marriage?

Percival, meanwhile, wanted to be kind to the childish, half-tamed Lottie, who had attracted his notice in the fields and trusted him with her generous message to Robin Wingfield.  The girl fancied herself immensely improved by her white dress, but had Thorne been a painter he would have sketched her as a pale vision of Liberty, with loosely-knotted hair and dark eyes glowing under Robin’s red cap.  He was able coolly to determine the precise nature of his pleasure in her society, but he knew that it was a pleasure.  And Lottie, when she fell asleep that night, clasped a card which was rendered priceless by the frequent recurrence of his initials.